


when have i lied to you?

by LadySpearWife



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Feelings, M/M, Mentions of Las Vegas, NOT dealing with feelings, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:54:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22075066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadySpearWife/pseuds/LadySpearWife
Summary: It’s absolutely his fault every fucking time, and especially in this one, falling for Charles Leclerc of all people, the whole package of boy-extraordinaire and champion in the making and next big thing of this snake sport. He’s a fucking disaster, that’s what he is, and Daniel is one as well by proxy.
Relationships: Charles Leclerc/Daniel Ricciardo
Comments: 8
Kudos: 48





	when have i lied to you?

Charles blinks to him, a quizzical, languid smile curling his mouth. He looks more amused by the accusation than offended, which Daniel takes as a good signal, despite the general hesitation. To unsettle someone trained in Maranello’s extensive PR is a feat on itself, and the little gesture feels unnaturally genuine. Charles hasn’t made a fame of being the most honest or open of them, nor the most approachable. Fair is fair.

“So,” he starts calmly, “I’m a fake ass bitch?”

In his mouth, it sounds oddly wrong, like he doesn’t swear or some bullshit in the same page, which is obviously impossible. But Charles, with the entire ingénue thing, Ferrari prince, anointed savior of Italy, and the whole rest of the affair, makes it sound true. He’s all wide, bright eyes and an easy smile, French choir boy act intact.

(It’s bloody awful that Daniel knows which complaints Charles would make to the comparison. First, not French – born and bred in Monaco of all places, a kid from Port Hercule and the _royal palace_ despite all his claims of being middle class and cheaper than that. Second, for all that he’s still catholic and sometimes even makes time for church on Sunday, Daniel of all people should know he’s a terrible singer. They’re spending too much time together. He can even hear that infuriating, goddamned accent.)

“Sometimes,” Daniel says like he didn’t just affirm it, all letters and surety. He makes a point of smiling back – see how funny he is, always joking, no limits.

“Hey rude.” Charles holds back a laugh for brave five seconds. “I’m just polite.”

“Babe,” he starts, pretending he doesn’t like the way Charles raises his eyebrows at the pet name but lets it slide, “the whole fucking _world_ knows you have a temper. You like to play the prince, but you’re a bastard. Y’know, more than the rest of us mortals.”

“Comes with the job, doesn’t it?” Charles hums noncommittally and sweetly.

It’s criminal that he manages to look so innocent and naïve and the whole pack of pretty face with no mind. Because Daniel knows it’s also a good act. He has teeth and can bark and hates to not get his way. He drives like he’s possessed, according to Lewis. Sebastian is fond of saying that no one ever got Ferrari’s big hounds wrapped around his finger so fucking quick. But Charles has the guts to hide all the fire and the terrible decisions and the general early twenties thing with bizarre obstinacy and politeness.

Daniel hasn’t been exactly subtle in how much he wants him, for sure. Or how much he has been watching every little step, trying to make sense of all the need.

It’s the car-crash heart, he decides, trying to stare Charles down and being met with the usual steeliness masked as determination. How he’s only comfortable if he’s moving fast, and fast enough happens to be his bloody Ferrari down the straights of Spa and Monza, bone-shattering speed and the whole death threat under it. Daniel has had it thrown on his face too many times to not know his type, of course – Jean-Éric after being kicked out of Red Bull, Sebastian in 2014, Daniil in 2016, Max _always_.

(His teammate historic is less than stellar, and he knows it, ok? He does.)

“Why now?” Charles asks, out of the blue, still smiling like he hasn’t been called fake or whatever. His silence must be too long, because he laughs, silly and light-hearted, and clarifies, “why say it now, I mean. You know me pretty well, Daniel.”

_Because I’m trying to judge if you’re messing with my head and feelings, dick_ , he thinks, tempted to be honest and finish this annoying hesitation. Daniel bets Charles wouldn’t laugh then, either caught out or surprised. That’d be a terrible way of confessing, though. And would give him too much of an advantage, despite not qualifying as too much of a threat to warrant those mind games he fears so much from this kid.

And, to Charles’ unfailing credit, he doesn’t think that he’d act caught out.

“Well, some bits of honesty are always good.”

“Considering that you saw me drunk and making a scandal in Vegas, made me criticize my own socks and heard me sing, I guess that you do have the higher ground.”

And he laughs again, the sly, foxy, infuriatingly handsome bastard. Daniel’s heart does a funny thing to the sight of his eyes crinkling, at how relaxed he looks now that season’s over, thank God. He knows, deep down in the places where he isn’t love-stupid, that Charles is trying to steer the conversation away from topics he doesn’t want to discuss like always. It makes no difference to how fucking fond Daniel is or how much he wants to drag him by his shirt and kiss him hard for a few long hours at least.

It’s his fault for falling for every pretty thing with a temper and years of mess to unpack. It’s absolutely his fault every fucking time, and especially in this one, falling for Charles Leclerc of all people, the whole package of boy-extraordinaire and champion in the making and next big thing of this snake sport. He’s a fucking disaster, that’s what he is, and Daniel is one as well by proxy. And Daniel would rather not talk about shared tragedy and the rest of the sad things they can’t commiserate together.

“Wanna get food?” Charles asks, nonchalant and calm, like they hadn’t attempted to discuss his tendency to manipulate and lie and perform all the time, tragic diva that he is. “I know one Italian place in Nice that sells the second-best pasta ever.”

“I’m not driving to Nice to get food. We’re in Monaco, babe.”

“You aren’t driving, _mate_.” There’re echoes of mockery there, but Daniel can’t care, not when Charles fishes car keys from his counter with a mischievous grin.

“This better be fucking good pasta.”

**Author's Note:**

> what is this? god knows. but happy new year to y'all 2020 is gonna be amazing or god help me


End file.
